


The Content of Love

by rains



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi is (discreetly) whipped, Bokuto is (outwardly) whipped, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Fluff, High School, Like literally this is Just Fluff there is no ounce of sadness, M/M, everyone is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29241018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rains/pseuds/rains
Summary: At this point in time, Bokuto is yet to learn that Akaashi’s face brightens with the ghost of a smile whenever he makes a silly remark. He’ll find out eventually that he needs to look out for these moments; to capture these pieces of luck instead of waiting for them to come to him.It’s fleeting, and his face settles into its usual listlessness, but the split second of light that flares across his face makes Bokuto think of shooting stars, dragging all his wishes to the tip of his tongue.They settle there, heavy and demanding—a perplexity of emotions he hasn’t learned to name.(Not yet, anyway)POV: you watch as Bokuto falls in love with Akaashi
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 35
Kudos: 331





	The Content of Love

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my super indulgent bokuaka fluff fic resulting from alan watts' speech about "the content of love". quotes from his speech will be used as dividers throughout the whole fic!
> 
> a massive thank you to my lovely beta readers [leia](https://twitter.com/spoonfuIlofsuga) and [jaimee](https://twitter.com/Witch_of_Roses) without whom this fic would not even take half the form that it did ♥

**𝐈**

**What is the content of love?**

**Look, basically, love...is something we can’t put our finger on at all!**

It’s the first day of winter—two days before the start of winter break.

Bokuto grins as the first year setter enters the locker room, his slim frame shivering slightly from the wind-chill outside.

“That’s a nice scarf you’ve got there, Akaashi!” 

The boy in question gazes down at the yellow knitted fabric as if to remind himself of what it looks like. He smiles, although it’s more of a momentary upturn of his lips, and says, “thank you, Bokuto-san.”

By the time he changes out of his uniform and into his practice attire, the heating in the room has warmed him up. Bokuto swings back and forth as he waits, shifting his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet. It’s a habit he acquired; coming into the locker room two minutes after the final bell and getting ready within the next two minutes in time to see his junior walking through the door. 

Bokuto is not sure when he pieced together the timing, but he does know that it gives him a few extra minutes to spend with Fukurodani’s newest setter—someone he’ll have to play alongside for months to come. So, it works out. He had to exchange seats with a girl in the front row to be closest to his classroom door and his legs burn from the sprint to the locker room sometimes, but if it allows him to get closer to his teammate then so be it. 

Akaashi no longer asks why Bokuto’s been waiting after he’s done getting ready. He simply closes his locker, stretches his fingers at his sides, and turns to the spiker with an impassive expression. It’s how Bokuto knows it’s time to head to the gym.

“You left your scarf!” Bokuto exclaims, noting Akaashi’s bare neck.

“I can’t wear it while we practice,” the other boy deadpans. 

“Oh. You’re right!”

At this point in time, Bokuto is yet to learn that Akaashi’s face brightens with the ghost of a smile whenever he makes a silly remark. He’ll find out eventually that he needs to look out for these moments; to capture these pieces of luck instead of waiting for them to come to him.

It’s fleeting, and his face settles into its usual listlessness, but the split second of light that flares across his face makes Bokuto think of shooting stars, dragging all his wishes to the tip of his tongue.

They settle there, heavy and demanding—a perplexity of emotions he hasn’t learned to name.

(Not yet, anyway)

**𝐈𝐈**

**We say―we use such words as warmth, tenderness; all these things, they don’t really get to the point.**

Warmth finds Bokuto on their first day back from winter break. 

It wears a yellow scarf and taps Bokuto’s shoulder just as he stands back up after picking up his drink from the vending machine.

“Akaashi!” 

The setter chews on his lips, eyes downcast. Bokuto stands straight, taking in the white paper bag that Akaashi fiddles with absentmindedly.

To fill the silence, and because he’s genuinely curious, Bokuto asks, “how was your winter break? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“It was good,” he answers. Bokuto thinks his response ends there, but Akaashi continues, “my family took in a stray dog we found on Christmas.”

“Really? What breed is it? Can I come see it?”

The first year stares at Bokuto, eyes wider than before. Bokuto mulls over the possibility of having overstepped his boundaries. The can of hot chocolate from the vending machine scalds his skin despite it being tepid at best.

“I—”

“She’s a spitz, but my father thinks she’s mixed with another breed. You can come see her when you’re free.”

Bokuto grins. The hot chocolate cools back down into a temperature more mellow. “I’m always free after practice. Text me your address, yeah?” 

“Hm.”

“What’s that?'' The second year gestures to the bag in Akaashi’s hand, its contents obscured.

“Ah,” mutters Akaashi, bringing the bag closer to himself. “It’s a gift. For you.”

“For me?” 

“Yeah.” In one swift motion, he passes the bag to Bokuto. “It’s nothing special, though.”

Bokuto accepts the white gift bag and takes a look at the blue material inside―a knitted scarf, much like the one worn by Akaashi. Taking it out, he runs a thumb over the deftly formed loops. The scarf is soft. Warm.

Bokuto looks up at Akaashi. Something trickles down his spine, like summer rain and molten honey. It dissolves in his veins and spreads through the rest of his body. 

“Did you buy me this because I said your scarf was nice?”

“I didn’t buy it.” His answer is muffled as he lowers his mouth into his own scarf. Realization follows puzzlement and Bokuto melts into a sultry pool of heat.

His thumb swipes repeatedly over the organized tangle of yarn. Thin white veins flow across the rich blue to make a plaid pattern, contrasting the white on yellow that Akaashi wears. Looping his wrist through the handle of the bag, Bokuto wraps the scarf around his neck.

“This is incredible, Akaashi,” he says sincerely. “Thank you.” 

Akaashi looks at the blue fabric hugging tan skin and smiles bigger than Bokuto has ever seen him smile before. 

“I’m glad you like it.”

Bokuto’s body buzzes with warmth. His skin tingles, flush and tender. It has nothing to do with the scarf. 

**𝐈𝐈𝐈**

**When you’re loving somebody you are simply delighting in that person as such.**

**From: Kon Kun (｀∀´)Ψ**

_where are u?_

_everyone’s waiting. we alr bought the tickets_

**To: Kon Kun (｀∀´)Ψ**

_:( im coming_

**From: Kon Kun (｀∀´)Ψ**

_would u hurry up if i said we’re watching a comedy instead?_

**To: Kon Kun (｀∀´)Ψ**

_are we? :D_

**From: Kon Kun (｀∀´)Ψ**

_no. but pretend we are and hurry up. ur making the second years look bad._

_even the first years are all here_

**To: Kon Kun (｀∀´)Ψ**

_the first years???_

**From: Kon Kun (｀∀´)Ψ**

_yeah. captain heard sarukui talking about our plans and suggested making it a team bonding experience_

_whatever the case just hurry up! ur watching this movie whether you like it or not_

Bokuto pockets his phone and almost runs the rest of the way to the theater with the newfound fervency in his steps. His mind clears of the movie reviews he spent all night reading, now replaced with Konoha’s message.

_The first years are all here._

Meaning—

Bokuto scans the inside of the movie theater, panting slightly. The smell of popcorn wafts through the air and the general buzz of people occupies his ears. He doesn’t notice the dark haired boy approaching him outside of his periphery.

“Bokuto-san.”

He recognizes the voice immediately.

The first year setter stares at him, flinching ever so slightly from the speed at which his senior turns around. 

“What are you doing here?” Bokuto asks, gesturing to the entrance right across from them. His tone does nothing to mask his excitement.

“The movie was about to start so Konoha-san asked me to wait for you outside with your ticket.” With that, he hands the slip of paper to him. Bokuto notices an identical piece in his other hand.

The starting time reads 5:30pm. One look at the time on the screen behind Akaashi reveals that it’s 5:34.

“You’re missing the movie because of me,” he says as they begin walking towards the theater. “I’m sorry, Akaashi.”

Akaashi stretches his neck to look ahead, glimpsing at his ticket before back at what he looked at prior. He doesn’t look at Bokuto when replying, “it’s okay. I watched this movie already.” He pauses for a second and then, “our theater is that way.”

Not even looking the way he points, Bokuto nods. “Why’d you agree to watch it again if you’ve watched it already?”

Akaashi faces him this time, gunmetal blue looking almost cobalt under all the lights. He regards Bokuto’s countenance, his own giving away nothing on what he’s thinking. 

In the end, he shrugs and looks back ahead. “Everyone in the team was coming. I thought I should, too.”

“I’m glad you did!” Bokuto grins. They show their tickets to the employee outside their theater and move towards their seats, which are near the very back of the room. On their way up they meet Konoha and Komi who are sitting three rows ahead of their spot. 

“Sorry,” mouths Konoha to the both of them, handing Akaashi a large bucket of popcorn and Bokuto two cups of soda. He whispers, “they didn’t have any more seats in this row.”

Akaashi only nods in acknowledgement and walks up to their row. Konoha shoots Bokuto with a sly wink before he makes his way up too. 

The gesture puzzles him, but he takes it as his friend taunting him about having to watch the horror film almost alone. Even so, he apologizes to the pair he has to pass to get to the center of the row and lets Akaashi hold one of the sodas so he can take a seat.

After he sits down, it dawns on him that there’s nothing distracting him from the characters and the ominous setting of the film. His mind travels back to the dozens of reviews professing how scary this movie is, bringing his nerves on edge. 

He’s too nervous to feel Akaashi’s gaze on him due to the setter’s failed attempt at offering him the popcorn. When Akaashi shakes the bucket in his line of vision, Bokuto almost yelps. 

Dread disperses across his skin and embarrassment takes over in the moment that follows. Akaashi blinks at him, expression unreadable as always. He leans towards Bokuto ever so slightly to mutter, “I’ll let you know when all the scary parts are coming. The first one won’t get here until they leave the house.”

Flustered, his cheeks tint a deep red. He nods and takes the popcorn from Akaashi, holding it on top of the arm rest so that both of them can access it easily.

True to Akaashi’s words, the atmosphere in the movie becomes tense as the protagonists leave their house. The background music dwindles into silence. Bokuto’s nails dig into the glossy surface of the popcorn bucket in anticipation.

Akaashi yawns in a way that sounds very much fake, stretching his arms as he does. One of them appears right in front of Bokuto’s field of vision, and just then, a loud noise screeches through the speakers, multiple gasps from the audience following suit. Akaashi retracts his arms and Bokuto’s gaze follows them as they’re placed on the younger’s lap. He had never been one to stretch into another’s personal space.

Before he even realizes it, he’s grinning.

Throughout the rest of the film, Akaashi manages to find roundabout ways to distract Bokuto from the frightening parts. He taps his shoulder or his thigh to divert his attention. Sometimes, he tugs on the bucket of popcorn. One time, he even calls Bokuto’s name. 

They receive a glare or two from those sitting around them, but they’re wholeheartedly ignored. Eventually Bokuto stops watching the movie entirely to focus on his company. Akaashi makes a show of watching the movie at first but eventually gives in, too, turning to face his senior instead with an amused quirk of his lips. 

He raises an eyebrow, as if to ask, “what?”

Bokuto shakes his head, breathing out a silent laugh as his eyes form crescents from the stretch of his smile. He feels giddy all of a sudden. The kind you feel when your favorite movie serves as background noise as you eat your favorite food in the company of your favorite person.

Except, Bokuto’s face is illuminated with whites and reds from the gory film playing in front of him. His fingers are greasy from the subpar popcorn and his soda is flat from the excess ice. Only one factor remains and Bokuto will spend nights tossing and turning wondering how high he’d rank Akaashi among all the people in his life. As for now, he doesn’t dwell on it. He drinks in the softness of the younger boy’s face, existing despite the harsh shadows the movie tries casting on him. He notes the way he, too, holds the underside of the popcorn bucket that’s on his side of the hand rest, even though it’s fully balanced and there’s no need to do so. He regards Akaashi, the thought of who had him running two blocks to see a movie he could only dread watching the night before. 

All of a sudden Konoha’s wink from earlier starts to make sense. Bokuto takes a look at the rows occupied by his teammates and sure enough, there are more than two other seats available. 

The realization makes his cheeks heat up further. It’s too cumbersome to keep facing Akaashi. 

(This only lasts two minutes. Third minute onwards, Bokuto is stealing glances at him again. He doesn’t require jumpscare warnings for the rest of the movie).

**𝐈𝐕**

**As if another human organism in its mental and its physical aspects were**

**a piece of music**

**or a work of art**

**or a glorious morning.**

Bokuto practically hears his mother chiding him for forgetting to bring an umbrella again as he runs through the rain with his bag above his head.

He almost perceives the protection of the yellow umbrella his eldest sister left for him on the kitchen table before leaving for work. He remembers eyeing it once before all his thoughts shifted to the smell of breakfast, and once he checked the time alerting him that he was about to miss the train, he was out the door. 

(The umbrella was not)

Puddles splatter onto the hem of his pants as he takes quick steps across the growing pools of water—courtesy of the looming blobs of gray above. The sound of rain hitting pavement grows louder with every dozen steps. By the time the school gate is in view, Bokuto can’t hear the frantic footsteps that approach him from behind. 

The top of his fingers are wet from holding the upper side of his bag, but they no longer feel the liquid needles hitting them. His movements slacken, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Ahead of him he can still see the raindrops reaching for the floor. Beside him, however, there is a change.

Akaashi stands there, right hand holding an umbrella above Bokuto, left clutching his chest as he breathes heavily. The gray of Akaashi’s blazer darkens on his left shoulder and the reason dawns on Bokuto only after he overcomes his surprise. 

“You’re getting wet!” he shouts without meaning to, completely out of concern. He swings his bag across his shoulder and uses his now free hand to grip Akaashi’s wrist, steering his umbrella closer to him. The boy resists.

“You don’t have an umbrella,” he reasons, standing up straight. “I can just take off my jacket and leave it somewhere to dry.”

The rain continues to pick up the pace. Bokuto huffs and pulls Akaashi closer to him. “Let me hold it,” he says, taking the umbrella from Akaashi—who in his shock from the sudden proximity is unable to resist. 

“Ah,” he mumbles, “that won’t be n—”

“Necessary, I know,” the senior smiles, familiar with his junior’s quirks and thought processes by now. “Still. You ran all this way to help me. The least I can do is hold the umbrella.”

They start walking. Akaashi looks at his left shoulder and then peeks at Bokuto. He rolls his eyes.

“Don’t let my run go in vain, then,” he says as he nudges Bokuto’s arm to the right so it covers more of him. “I keep telling you to bring your umbrella.” 

“And I keep forgetting!” he grins bashfully. 

Akaashi ponders over something. Bokuto notices that both of their steps have decelerated significantly, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

“What time do you leave your house usually?”

“By 6:00 when we have practice and 8:00 when we don’t. Why?”

“You have your phone with you at all times, don’t you? I’ll call you before you leave and remind you to pack your umbrella.”

Bokuto doesn’t know what it’s supposed to feel like when his heart skips a beat but he’s pretty sure it does just then. “Every day?” 

Akaashi nods.”At least until the rainy season ends.”

“How will you remember, Akaashi?” the spiker asks, voice a pitch higher from shock.

“I’ll set an alarm so I don’t forget.”

It takes Bokuto a few seconds to compose himself. A droplet of water slides down the side of his face. It’s lukewarm from the heat of his skin.

Bokuto realizes that he, too, could simply set an alarm reminding himself to pack his umbrella every day. He could even ask his parents or his sisters to remind him as he’s heading out the door. Hell, he could be extra diligent and pack it the night before. He could be responsible. And Akaashi probably knows this too. 

He beams. If being responsible means missing out on Akaashi’s calls every morning for the next month or so, Bokuto doesn’t want to be responsible for a second.

“I’ll be counting on you, then, Kaashi!”

He receives a smile in return. The sun may as well have made a surprise appearance amidst the oppressive clouds. 

“I’ll do my best.”

(Later, when Bokuto gets to class, gray blazer with dapples two shades darker, one of his classmates frowns at him solemnly.

“You forgot your umbrella too, huh?” 

Bokuto nods, placing his blazer on the back of his chair to dry—identical to his classmate’s.

“I fuckin’ hate the rain. It makes mornings so gloomy.”

“Does it?” Bokuto mutters mostly to himself, looking outside. “It’s quite nice out today, though.”)

**𝐕**

**And you go over another person’s physical form and look at it from every possible point of view and play with it. That’s what it’s about.**

“Engage your core, Akaashi!”

Bokuto watches as the setter listens to their coach’s instructions. Konoha is beside him, wiping his face with a towel. The friction of the fabric leaves his skin red.

“Akaashi’s so ambitious,” he says to the other third year, who squeezes water into his mouth. “He’s been practicing hitting straights all week.”

Konoha flits his gaze to where Bokuto is looking and smirks, “I wonder why.”

Bokuto peels his eyes away from the setter to regard Konoha, head tilted in interest. The ace waits for elaboration but it doesn’t come. Konoha only laughs at him. 

“What?” 

The brunet shakes his head, looking at the setter once more. Bokuto does too. He watches as Akaashi hits a straight spike past two blockers and smiles. 

“His role model is equally as ambitious, so he should be, too,” Konoha comments. He studies Bokuto’s face. Confusion is written in the furrow of his brows. 

The ace tries to recall if Akaashi ever mentioned having a role model. He’d expressed marvel at numerous setters they played against and watched during nationals—all of whom had been ambitious to a certain degree. Akaashi is competitive by nature. It doesn’t show much in his outward demeanor but numerous times Bokuto has noticed the way his sets pick up pace and become more strategic in order to get the upper hand over an opponent. He’s shown admiration and vigor multiple times, but Bokuto has never seen him look up to someone enough to want to emulate their energy. 

“Who is his role model?” he finally asks Konoha who clicks his tongue in annoyance. 

The other third year looks him up and down, judgement clear in his eyes. “I wonder too, ‘cause it sure as hell can’t be the guy _I_ know.” 

He leaves after that, leaving the ace to deal with his curiosities alone. 

Before Bokuto can think to go after him with his inquiries, their coach calls them to the court. Akaashi stands in the middle, the rise and fall of his chest prominent as he recovers from the grueling spike drills. The sheen of sweat makes him glow. 

Bokuto looks away. Their coach describes the drills they’re about to do with the setters as the primary focus. The team is divided into three, with one group occupying each court. Bokuto gets sent to the court next to Akaashi’s.

Konoha and Komi snicker at him as they make their way to the second year setter. He assumes the reason is similar to whatever has his shoulders sagging all of a sudden.

The drill is simple; nothing they haven’t done before. The setter sets to the spikers from various parts of the court to improve their reach. The liberos will be on the other side of the court, trying to receive. 

Bokuto stands in line with the other spikers who run up one by one. Each spiker will go three times in a row. As he waits for his turn, he looks across the court where Akaashi moves around expertly to place himself under the ball wherever the ball boy passes it.

Akaashi’s form is flawless. With feet planted solidly on the ground and knees bent, his back arches perfectly as strong arms reach for the sphere in the air. Slender fingers capture the curve, hands dipping and lean frame stretching altogether towards the direction he sends the ball. There’s strength in Akaashi’s poise; danger in his repose. He doesn’t stop to admire his own dexterity, moving to the opposite corner of the court where the ball is thrown next. 

Washio jerks his shoulder to break him from his trance. 

“Hm?” Bokuto looks at him, mind still bubbly in half-daze.

“You’re up next.”

“Oh.”

(His first run-up is clumsy but he still manages to hit the ball well. His mind is weighty with the silhouette of a strong body and graceful hands.)

**𝐕𝐈**

**It’s the adoration of the form of a human being,**

**and you do that adoring in terms of physical contacts that are, say, dancing with your fingers across the skin, or whatever it may be.**

The shrill blow of the whistle accompanies the thud of a ball hitting the floor. Fukurodani’s crowd erupts into cheers. 

They made it past the Tokyo qualifiers for Nationals. 

The award ceremony goes by in a flash and the Fukurodani volleyball team enters their assigned locker room with gold hanging from their necks. Bokuto’s chest swells with pride as his teammates slap his back, praising him for scoring the last point.

“I didn’t think Akaashi-kun would be able to make that last set,” Washio comments as he changes out of his sweaty jersey. 

“Me neither,” Komi pipes. “My receive was super short.” 

Bokuto looks around the room to catch the setter’s reaction to being praised. He’s usually very dismissive of compliments, but when everyone looks away and moves onto a different topic, he always smiles to himself. Bokuto doesn’t want to miss the sight.

“He’s being interviewed,” Konoha says, having caught him searching the room. “He offered to let the other awardees go first since they seemed to be in a hurry.”

“Of course he is,” Onaga muses, hearing this. “Senpai is always considerate.”

“You don’t have a crush on him, do you?” Konoha teases. Bokuto whips his head towards the first year, eyes wide with interest. 

“A crush?” he exclaims. Knots form in his chest and his mouth begins to turn sour when he notices the way Onaga blushes.

He waves his hands frantically, shaking his head for emphasis. “No way! He’s just a senior I respect a lot.” 

The clarification allows Bokuto’s stance to slacken. He opens the lid of his water bottle and chugs it without using the spout. 

“Still. You can have a crush on seniors you admire,” Komi joins Konoha’s teasing. He slings an arm over Bokuto’s shoulders. “Don’t you think so, _Bokkun_?”

Onaga is positively flustered, face fully red from all the attention. The rest of the second and third years smile slyly and even though the topic of discussion is the poor first year middle blocker, Bokuto can’t help but feel his skin prickle like he’s also part of the joke. 

At last, Konoha chuckles. “We’re just messin’ with ya, Onaga-kun.” He then turns to everyone else and stands up to stretch. “Let’s get going soon. I’m hungry and Coach must be waiting for us.”

There’s a rumble of agreement before everyone starts changing and packing up. It takes Bokuto a while to recover from the shock of the prior conversation so he lags behind. When he stands up, a needle of pain pokes through his ankle. He clicks his tongue and rotates his right foot, scowling at the discomfort.

“You coming?” Washio asks from the door. Everyone else has already left.

Bokuto nods. He places his right foot on the floor softly. “I’ll be right out.”

“Alright,” his teammate says before leaving as well and closing the door behind him.

Bokuto starts off by applying some moisturizer to his face. He had washed up before entering the locker room, but his face is uncharacteristically warm. When he takes off his shirt, the door opens behind him and he snaps his face towards the sound to see his setter looking back at him.

Akaashi’s hooded eyes broaden. The difference wouldn’t be caught by someone who didn't spend an extraordinary time examining and thinking of his facial features.

The setter clears his throat and blinks, nodding in acknowledgement as he makes his way to his locker. Bokuto’s eyes trail alongside him, zoning in on the _Best Setter_ award in his hands.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” says Akaashi. He keeps his plaque in his locker and takes something out instead before approaching Bokuto. When he’s within arm’s reach, he places a hand on his bare shoulder and gently pushes him towards the bench. “Sit.”

He has no choice but to comply.

When he does, Akaashi crouches down. Bokuto watches as he places gauze and a metal can beside him on the bench, moving his hands to then touch Bokuto’s ankle. When he looks up to meet his eyes, Bokuto swears he sees stars.

“You should have gone to the medic after the match.” 

All Bokuto can do is look back at him, eyes filled with guilt. He sees the lines of concern on his face; the raised eyebrows and soft scowl. If he squints, he might even see the subtle pout present on Akaashi’s lips. 

(He does squint. He wishes he hadn’t)

“I didn’t notice it until I got here,” he explains earnestly. With the excitement of winning the match, nothing else registered in his brain. It was only amplified when he received the best spiker award, and continued to snowball when Akaashi’s name was called right after his. In front of him, his teammate sighs. He examines the injured ankle. “How did you know, Akaashi?”

“You landed awkwardly after that first spike. I had a hunch,” he mutters and places a tentative hand on the side of Bokuto’s foot. His fingers are cold. 

Slowly, his grip becomes firm and he rotates it around, switching his gaze from Bokuto’s face to his ankle. “Does it hurt?”

Bokuto has to let out a shaky breath before he can speak. “Just a little when you push it towards the left. Uh, my left. Your right.” 

Akaashi nods. He takes the can of _Air Salonpas_ and shakes it scantily before opening the cap and spraying some onto the outer part of his senior’s ankle. Bokuto notes the coolness of the substance inside and the eventual heat it spreads through his skin. 

“I’ll wrap it up now,” he states so softly that Bokuto has to strain his ears. The air conditioner sends cool blows of air to his bare skin but the heat doesn’t diminish. All he can perceive is the hot rush of blood through his veins and the trickle of fondness against his veneer. He watches Akaashi’s nimble fingers tuck the end of the gauze securely into itself. Akaashi runs his thumb over his talus, eyes fastened to the white material around it. His hair falls to his forehead, weighed down and stuck in place due to sweat. Almost hypnotized from the myriad of sensations, Bokuto reaches out a hand to push Akaashi’s curls back. A few strands still remain, so he uses a finger to detach them from his skin as well.

Akaashi stiffens under his touch, but Bokuto is too entranced to notice it. When he withdraws his hand, he has a full view of Akaashi again. It makes him smile, dopey and drunken in a way he can never explain. 

His eyes soften, hooded. “Congratulations. For getting the best setter award.”

Akaashi clears his throat for the second time in that room. His expression is unreadable. “Thank you. Though, I probably only got it because the previous winner was injured for half the tournament.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ji,” he counters passionately, but his voice comes out uncharacteristically soft. “You practically carried the team in that last match.”

“I had to after the number of serves you messed up,” Akaashi says. He’s smiling wickedly and his eyes sparkle the way they always do when he’s being playful.

Bokuto feigns horror . “Akaashi!” 

The conversation ends with giggles; Bokuto’s succeeding Akaashi’s.

(Later, the duo receives complaints for delaying the team’s victory dinner. They apologize to their coach and head to the back of the bus. When Akaashi moves to take the empty spot next to Onaga, Bokuto grabs his shoulder and steers him to the last row, ignoring the knowing looks from the rest of the team).

**𝐕𝐈𝐈**

**This is the nitty gritty, the** **_nub_ ** **of love**

**You wants something much more than that**

**You want to be** **_played_ ** **with…**

**That’s more like it.**

**From: AKAASHI (*´-｀*)**

_line’s longer than usual. sorry for making you wait._

**To: AKAASHI (*´-｀*)**

_no worries AKAASHI!!!!_

_sry my phone automatically capitalizes ur name_

_take your time! i’ll be in room 305_

**From: AKAASHI (*´-｀*)**

_okay :)_

Bokuto enters the empty classroom and picks a seat beside one of the windows. He usually eats lunch with Akaashi on the roof but due to the cultural festival approaching, many of the students are using the roof to paint their props. Luckily, he managed to find an empty classroom since Akaashi offered to buy food for both of them. 

He rests his head atop his forearm on the table, looking out the window. Fall has painted much of the leaves with warmth hues, and the clouds above them shield the sun, bathing the scene in benignity. It calms Bokuto into closing his eyes and eventually into falling asleep.

His subconscious vaguely notes footsteps and the far-away sound of a door sliding closed. A shadow lays across his face and it grows, grows, retreats. The _ssk_ of curtain hoops dragging across the rail reverberates as the modicum of sunlight disappears entirely. It’s all murky in Bokuto’s state of slumber; maybe even nothing more than a chimera. 

There’s the crunch of plastic packaging followed by a cold sensation on his face. Bokuto must flinch because the coldness goes away. It returns shortly after the distant sound of blowing air on to skin registers in one corner of his mind. Skin on skin, lukewarm this time around yet so, so comforting.

Bokuto wakes up, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He peeks one eye open to see his favorite curry bun placed in front of his face. He deduces that the blur sitting on the chair in front of his table is Akaashi and it makes lukewarm feel like fire.

His stomach churns and the motion has nothing to do with the meek scent of curry bun tempting his hunger. Akaashi runs a finger along his hairline, removing any stray pieces of hair from his forehead. His nails graze Bokuto’s scalp as locks of hair run between them, organizing themselves along the path Akaashi weaves. 

Bokuto wonders—among multiple things—if Akaashi felt this way when Bokuto made the same gesture in the locker room; like his lips physically can’t contain the sigh of contentment threatening to spill out or like all his nerve endings are about to split into two. 

Carelessly, he angles his head so it's more accessible to Akaashi. Immediately, the setter retreats his hand. His stomach swoops with dread but he refrains from reacting in hopes that Akaashi resumes.

When he does, it’s accompanied by a soft sigh of relief. There’s nothing Bokuto wouldn’t give to be able to see Akaashi’s demeanor right now. 

He’s not sure how many minutes pass. He spends every dulcet second trying to memorize the sensation of Akaashi’s fingers running through his hair. He pictures how they might look to outsiders, trying hard to contain any emotion being evoked.

The sound of Akaashi’s ringtone disturbs their bubble of serenity and Akaashi withdraws his hand once again, hissing a _“shit!”_ under his breath. Bokuto peeks one eye open again to see that Akaashi’s about to leave and instinctively reaches out to the setter to stop him by his arm. The suddenness startles him and he whips his head back to look at Bokuto, eyes wide and mouth parted.

“Did I wake you?” 

“Where are you going?” Bokuto doesn’t answer the question. He pouts instead and softens his gaze, preparing to coax Akaashi into staying.

The second year looks at his phone which continues to ring. “I was going to answer this outside since I didn’t want to wake you.”

Bokuto tugs his arm gently, cajoling him forward. “I’m already awake. Don’t go.” 

Akaashi stares at his wrist and the fingers Bokuto has wrapped around it. He looks at Bokuto next, searching his face before sighing. His phone stops ringing. 

“Okay,” he breathes, smiling. “I won’t go.”

Bokuto doesn’t let go of his arm even as he sits back down. Instead, he places Akaashi’s hand back on his hair as he goes back to his original position—head resting on forearm, face to the now curtained windows. 

“Wh-”

“Play with my hair again,” he says, closing his eyes. “It felt nice.” 

There’s no response for a few breaths until Akaashi finally manages to ask, “you were awake the whole time?”

The third year angles his face away pointedly, suppressing a smile. He can hear the syllables stuck behind Akaashi’s throat and it’s almost comical getting to witness him so flustered. Opening his eyes, he places his chin where the side of his face was, gold fixing on gunmetal blue. 

“Does it matter?”

Akaashi’s eyes return to their original size as he regains his composure. He regards Bokuto’s question. Something about his eyes while he does feels too meaningful; too heavy. Bokuto can’t look away.

After his contemplation, Akaashi smiles, soft and quiet and contained. Personal. It practically incapacitates him.

“I guess not,” he finally responds. The next thing Bokuto knows, the boy is back to playing with his hair. There’s no hesitance, fingers moving without the need to be secretive. 

Bokuto wishes lunch break would never end.

**𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈**

**What is the content of love? It’s sort of it, part of it. It’s incidental. It’s a way of saying very strongly, “yes, I do want to be with you.”**

It’s the first day of winter—two days before the start of winter break. 

Bokuto and Akaashi—as captain and vice captain—were assigned the task of letting their teammates know that practice was called off last minute. They sent out a text in their group chat but since some members have yet to read it, they decided to wait outside their gym and notify anyone that comes by. 

“You could’ve just let me handle it, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says for the umpteenth time. Bokuto checks to see if the bench outside is dry and upon confirming that is it, he sits down on it. Akaashi follows. 

“But I’m the captain. I shouldn’t run from my responsibilities!” Bokuto exclaims. Plus, it’s not like he’d pass up on an opportunity to spend time with Akaashi. The sentiment remains from a year ago, except this time, Bokuto knows why. 

“If only you were this consistent on the court,” the setter sighs dramatically. Bokuto doesn’t turn away, expecting to see a meteor shower in broad daylight. When Akaashi’s playful smile eventually appears, Bokuto’s wish practically falls from his lips.

He smiles too, half out of joy and half to seal his lips. He doesn’t refute, too amused and content to pretend like he’s not. 

Akaashi exhales, stretching out his fingers. Bokuto notices the way he rubs his hands together, clasping the fingers of each hand with the other and balling his hands into fists. Bokuto looks down at his own hands, covered in gloves. 

Without giving himself time to reconsider (because he knows he wouldn’t) he takes off the gloves and twists around so that he’s fully facing his companion. He displays his palms and says, “give me your hand.”

“Huh?”

Bokuto doesn’t waste time repeating himself. Instead, he takes Akaashi’s right hand and presses it between his palms. He can feel the contrast in temperature. 

“Why are your hands always so cold?” he scowls, rubbing his hands up and down against Akaashi’s to create friction. Once that hand is warmed up, he gestures for Akaashi to give him the other. Akaashi doesn’t refuse. 

“I don’t know. It’s just how it’s always been,” he mumbles, eyes trained on their hands. “They’re even cold during the summer.”

“I understand summer, but what’s your excuse for not bringing gloves with you today?”

“I forgot.”

“ _You_ forgot.”

Akaashi smiles again, amused by Bokuto’s sarcastic tone. “They’re inconvenient anyways. They make my hands all clammy and it’s difficult to write with them on.”

Bokuto goes over Akaashi’s first hand again to return some of the lost heat. He then sandwiches both of his hands between his, and when he’s satisfied with the temperature, he takes his gloves and puts them on over Akaashi’s hands.

“Wear them when you’re not writing, then,” he mutters, stretching out any wrinkles. “I’ll bring you hand warmers from tomorrow onwards.”

Akaashi chuckles, wriggling his fingers to feel the extra layer around them. “I doubt you’d be able to remember, Bokuto-san. Besides, it’s not a big deal,” he assures. He shoves his hands inside his jacket. “I can always just do this.” 

The other boy stares at him. He debates over what to say next, throat drying up at the thought of one of the options.

He sputters it out before it dries up any further. “I’ll remember if it’s for you.”

He keeps a close eye on Akaashi’s expression, trying to note any change in his relaxed expression. His eyebrows jolt up. It’s slight. So is the pink that peeks through his cheeks. His lips part, just enough to indicate that he’s too taken aback to contain the minuscule lapse in his breath.

After a silence that seems to span over half an eternity, Akaashi finally speaks. “Why is that?”

“Hm?”

“You won’t remember things for yourself but you’re willing to do so if it’s for me,” he states. “Why is that?” 

Bokuto lets the question settle. The answer is easy. So goddamn easy. But saying it—no, _deciding_ to say it is another thing. 

So, he makes a rebuttal out of it; throws back whatever Akaashi sent.

“What about you?” 

“What about me?”

“You got your shoulder wet that day. When it was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella,” he clarifies. “You got your shoulder wet to shield me. Even though I was already wet. Why is that?”

Akaashi looks away. He tugs on his fingers one by one like he always does when he’s nervous. With the way his heart pounds in his ears, Bokuto’s not sure he can hear Akaashi even if he does answer. Despite the near-freezing temperature, his palms begin to sweat. 

Only when Akaashi replies does Bokuto realize he’s been holding his breath. It forms puffs of white in the air.

“I think you know, Bokuto-san,” his voice is so low that Bokuto has to strain his ears. “You know, don’t you? And that’s why you asked?”

The boy in question smiles warmly, feeling a pleasant weight on his chest. He nods.

Of course, Bokuto knows. How could he not, when Akaashi’s the one he’s been watching all this time? When Akaashi’s the one whose steps he’s been syncing his own with?

When Akaashi’s been doing the same, towards him?

The setter sighs, shoulders sagging. He looks at Bokuto with an accusation clear on his face.

Just then, Bokuto’s phone vibrates. He hears Akaashi’s going off as well. He checks the notification to see that Onaga and Anahori, the last of their teammates, responded in the group chat. 

He looks up from his phone, beaming. “The first years said they’re heading home!”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bokuto raises his phone lamely, puzzled. “Do you want me to respond to them?”

He signs again, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and opening them again. “No, Bokuto-san. Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”

“Oh!” he exclaims, feeling extremely stupid right after. He offers Akaashi a look of apology as he gathers his thoughts into coherence. After a brief pause, he says, “I guess I was content with what we already had.”

“And what do we have?” 

The third year chuckles at how straightforward his companion is. He inches towards him, leaning forward to lift his hands out of his pockets. He holds them instead.

“This.” He squeezes Akaashi’s hands and shakes them for emphasis. 

“My hands?” 

“Akaashi!” he whines, scowling at the way Akaashi raises his eyebrows skeptically. “Not your literal hands. I’m talking about what they do for me. Like blocking my view from scary scenes and holding up an umbrella and wrapping a bandage around my ankle,” he lists fervently, voice increasing in volume. “I love you so much I felt like I was going to die when you played with my hair the day I fell asleep during lunch!”

The horror in Akaashi’s face is the last thing Bokuto expects. His throat dries, stomach coiling with dread.

“You what?”

“I didn’t literally feel like dying! Aren’t you good at literature? It was a metaphor.”

“A hyperbole,” the junior corrects. His eyes are still blown and Bokuto doesn’t understand why. Until—

“You l—you _love_ me?”

Oh.

Words escape Bokuto. Fragments of syllables he’s known to pronounce his whole life abandon his mind. And maybe that’s a good thing—maybe being unable to say anything at all is the only way Bokuto can refrain from blurting out the wrong things.

(Or the right things in the wrong moment)

Akaashi’s breath is shaky. His chest rises and falls irregularly and in Bokuto’s grasp, his hands feel limp. Bokuto knows that no matter how daunting it might be, he owes it to Akaashi to be honest with his feelings. Especially when he coaxed Akaashi’s feelings out where it’s glaringly clear for them to see. 

Inhaling deeply, he allows for some of his nerves to dissipate with the air. He convinces himself that his heart rate steadies even though it continues to canter erratically. 

“I do,” he admits. His voice is even, confident—a mirror image of the conviction surrounding his feelings towards the boy that faces him. “I love you, Akaashi. I love you so much.”

Akaashi’s hands gain mobility once more. Bokuto almost melts when he feels the boy before him squeeze his fingers. 

“Are you serious?” he asks. Immediately he shakes his head and adds, more for himself, “no, you wouldn’t joke about something like this, Bokuto-san.”

It makes the boy in question chuckle. “No, I wouldn’t,” and for good measure, he reassures, “I’m serious. Super serious. Super _duper_ serious.”

Nothing Bokuto learned about Akaashi thus far could have prepared him from the smile he earns himself—not an eternity of observing subtle patterns in time, nor a lifetime’s worth of daydreaming. He’s simultaneously speechless and has too many words threatening to spill out of him, but Akaashi beats him to it.

“I—” he clears his voice when it comes out weak. “I love you, too, Bokuto-san.” 

“What? Really?”

Akaashi squints and tilts his head. “Didn’t you just say you knew?”

“I thought you _liked_ me. I wasn’t expecting the other L-word!”

“Why are you calling it the L-word now when you’ve said the whole thing thrice in the span of five minutes?”

“I don’t know!” Bokuto cries, shaking his head from being overwhelmed. “I’m just—I don’t know, Akaashi! I’m feeling a lot of things at once right now!”

Akaashi leans forward, his eyes level with Bokuto’s chin. He peeks up at the boy through his lashes, head tilted to the left teasingly. “Like what?”

Bokuto almost leans in, too. His eyes rest on Akaashi’s lips. He’s never seen him smile from so close before. 

“For one,” he mutters, “I feel like I really want to kiss you.”

The confession surprises Akaashi into jerking back. He uses the slight additional distance to look at Bokuto. The boy in question isn’t sure if Akaashi bites his lips on purpose or if it’s his usual nervous habit. Either way, it makes Bokuto’s stomach lurch and tickle excitedly. 

Akaashi leans back in. His voice is as low as Bokuto’s when he says, “do it, then.”

Bokuto doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He presses his lips to Akaashi’s, savoring the soft spread of warmth along his skin as he does. He pulls away briefly to look at him, noticing the sweet spread of pink across Akaashi’s cheeks. 

Bokuto lets go of Akaashi’s hands. He cups the boy’s cheeks, gently tugging him forward to kiss him again.

It lasts longer this time. They move their lips languidly against each other’s and it’s _warm, warm, warm_ , and Bokuto’s so _in_ _love_ that it makes blood rush to his head to leave him positively dizzy. 

When they part, opening his eyes feels like waking from a pleasant dream. He blinks the daze away only to realize the reality sitting right in front of him might be much more devine.

He smiles and smiles and smiles. It’s so wide his cheeks start to hurt. When Akaashi smiles back at him, timid and almost surreptitious, he can’t feel anything but mirth.

“I love you,” he blurts. 

Still unused to it, Akaashi’s eyes widen once again in reaction. He looks at him incredulously, crumping into soft laughter. 

“I love you, too.”

“I love you _more_.”

The second year gapes at him. His eyes dazzle with amusement.

“You’re going to turn this into a competition?”

Bokuto pecks his lips and stands up. He swings his bad across his body and giggles as he takes a few steps away.

“Not like you can stop me!”

Akaashi mirrors him and chases after the third year. The air fills with the sound of their laughter and when Bokuto finally stops skipping away, he outstretches hand towards Akaashi, who’s only a few steps behind. 

Once the raven haired boy reaches him, he examines Bokuto’s hand skeptically. Bokuto only rolls his eyes and grabs Akaashi’s gloved hand, interlacing their fingers before slipping their clasped hands in his jacket pocket. 

“Let’s go get some nabe. It’s cold and I’m hungry.” Bokuto suggests. 

“Okay,” the other boy agrees as they walk side-by-side. “There’s a place by the station.”

“Let’s go!”

(Before they reach, Bokuto makes the bold move of asking Akaashi what they are.

“What do you want to be?” Akaashi asks, taking the bait.

“Yours,” Bokuto, practically glowing from the response he thought of, replies. “I want to be yours.”)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope this fic could give you the warmth of a thousand knitted scarves ♡ it must get lonely sometimes given the situation we're in but i hope you can find enjoyment in your own company. take care of yourself, treat yourself well, and try to fall in love with the process of being taken care of—even if it's a process shared with yourself. in these unprecedented times, i'm rooting for all of you. 
> 
> come say hi on twitter [@bluekeiji](https://twitter.com/bluekeiji)! lord knows i'm always being a menace there


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